


Love Love

by Teawithmagician



Series: Logan and Rogue [6]
Category: Wolverine (Movies), X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Drama, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Het, Hurt/Comfort, Porn, Porn With Plot, Smut, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-04
Updated: 2016-07-04
Packaged: 2018-07-20 01:45:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7385929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teawithmagician/pseuds/Teawithmagician
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Love is stronger than pain. Love is even stronger than death. Everyone Logan loved died. Everyone Rogue loved she killed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love Love

**Author's Note:**

> Superfast Wolverine recovery, songfic to Take That - Love Love.

Dying in her, Wolverine dies for real every time.

Rogue poisons him. Her breath is a poison, her fingers leave blood traces on his skin. In the morning, Gray sheets will be brown from the stale blood. But you can see it only if you won't draw the curtains, leaving pale winter sun behind.

Love is stronger than pain. Love is even stronger than death. Everyone Logan loved died. Everyone Rogue loved she killed. Rogue cried telling Logan about it, and Logan remained silent. He half-wanted to shut her up, half-wanted to shut up himself – his insatiable thoughts with a rubber bung.

I love you, says Rogue. Logan growls when she jokingly calls him daddy. Rogue could have been his daughter, granddaughter, even grand-granddaughter. Logan prefers not to remember that. He could call himself her mentor, but he learns her to survive, not to master her abilities. Xavier Rogue fled is a mentor. Logan, he is just... Logan.

Sometimes just Logan is enough. Enough for everything going to Hell in a waste-basket. Shit.

Rogue will make it through, she is strong. As strong, as Logan himself. She just cries too much and it gets on Logan's nerves. And takes in bad parts often. And is capable of murder with a touch. And when she once again goes away up the snowy road in her thin trendy parka, Logan is not going after her: he knows she can take care of herself. 

She will be back if she wants to. At heart, Logan is so descent he is sick of himself. He is not going after Rogue to grab her hands because while she is in no danger, he is not telling her what to do. And he is not her fucking daddy, alright? He is her man. Her lover. Because it's just so. And Logan is not running after the women: at least, this one. 

I love you, Rogue sobs. When Logan blots her among the pillows, Rogue adds in a moist whisper, I love your dick. It's enough for the creeps to run up Logan's spine like a covey of Japanese infantry. Why Japanese infantry? Logan does not remember. He doesn't remember much about thing happening not here and not now.

Logan's got a hard on, but when Rogue tells it to him (she is in trance she won't remember anything in the morning), drunk on his overflown live force, he's got an adamantine on. For him. It would be easier if she came to him not being a virgin. But she was a virgin.

Rogue holds Logan's back, weak and pale, she engorges with his blood and juices like an autumn apple to the harvest day. She is so juicy she flows out, down there is so wet like Logan has already come: but Logan is still alive and knows that his orgasm is as far as Magneto in his plastic prison. 

Will you die, Rogue asked him. Not for too long, Logan answered.  
Logan gets weak, it's hard to breathe. Firstly, he hammered between Rogue's hips with the fury of a jackhammer, but now he becomes soft and Rogue, concatenating ankles on his loin, pushes him in. She doesn't mean to, she just wants more, and Logan accepts the challenge. He overhangs Rogue's opened mouth and fucks like it's his last, letting her scream out to her heart's content.

When Rogue screams, she opens her mouth widely. Kisses bring the peril closer, but Logan wants to kiss Rogue – and kisses her. Normally she turns away (Logan, you'll die – I mean, you'll die too fast), but this time Rogue is in amok. She grabs Logan's neck – her nails running down his spine, his skin, deep abrasions heal fast like a dog's: much faster than dog's – and gives him a slobbery kiss.

Rogue tastes like cola and chips, hot up and down. Logan's eyes darken when Rogue takes hold of his butt: his demure is not demure, she is sateless.

“You will fuck me to death,” Logan blurts out. His eyes are rolling up, his hands are shaking – he feels for his one hundred and fifty, and even more.

Logan is ready to come, but there's no kiss – Rogue pushes him back with all strength she sucked from him and slaps his face – so hard Logan's teeth rings, her vagina pulls even harder than her mouth and her hands – and tries to move her hips together. 

“Jerk!” Rogue shouts, but it's too late. Logan's dick leaps and he comes – half in Rogue and half, jerking back, into the blanket. His sperm is thick like expired milk.

In the bathroom, Logan throws out into the sink. What Rogue does to him is harder, than any torture and any poison. Logan's body ruthlessly belches the supper, it can't drag Logan out of the grave with a burger, beer and rancid fries in the stomach. Dump the ballast! Open all the hatches. It's good he vomits with no blood, with blood it tastes like shit.

When Logan raises his head, still barking, he sees a dead man in the mirror over the sink – cyanotic, with greenish veins on all his visible body, and gray hair. He turns on the water, washes the vomit into the sink, intertwining, it's foaming and bubbling. It smells of vinegar and scrapyard. Logan washes his face and wipes his hands on the towel. Spitting into the sink, he spits out his tooth.

The tooth is yellow and moldering like a toadstool. His gum is itching – another one already grows. When Logan raises his head once again, in the mirror he sees himself – more or less. His skin is lighter, his veins are paler, gray hair has darkened with familiar chestnut color. Also, he sees Rogue, standing in the doorway. She looks like a ghost, in her eyes – all pain of the world. 

“I am killing you,” she says in a funeral voice.

Logan abuts his hands into the sink and tilts his head. The sink is cracking in his fingers. When he is angry, he can crumble the stone into dust, not speaking about ceramics.

“You could be my daughter,”he says abruptly, withholding grand and grand-grand daughter. “I feel like a pedophile. Let's measure who's worse?”

Technically, you are not a pedophile,” Rogue objects. “Don forget I wanted it.”

“Technically,” Logan pushes off the creaky sink, tottering on the mounts, and turns to Rogue. “You need to cry less and learn more.”

“How many books have you read?” Rogue snaps. It because of the draft her nipples stands upright.

When Rogue unbuttoned her shirt and asked if her breasts are beautiful, Logan didn't answer at once. Later, he told her to button up and get lost, but he knew what he who hesitates was lost, and he hesitated. Would you fuck me, Logan, she asked with a strange expression in her eyes, if you were able to touch me and not to die?

Logan told her to fuck off, and Rogue took off her panties. He didn't do it slow or sensual like older women did, women who knew a lot about sex. The hair on her pubis was fluffy and cast red. But it was not about Logan fucking her even if he would die – one Rogue touched him, and he didn't die.

It was about Logan touching and not hurting her. His lips around his nipple, to the mole below her breast, down to the belly: buttocks getting into his hands obediently, like fresh baked buns. It's good to have a family. The thought breaks surface like a pike from a lake, and takes a header back into the darkness: Logan didn't manage to catch its tail.

“More than you think,” Logan snaps out. The skin on his spine and shoulders is pinching, its clear, Logan knows, not a single pitting. He recovered, and – what a surprise – he has a hard-on again.

Rogue looks into his eyes. And when – at his dick. Logan reaches out a hand and Rogue makes a few steps back, into the room. Her breasts and belly float in the darkness like cream, dissolving in the coffee slowly.

“I won't die,” Logan says. “I will never die.”

“And what if you will?” Rogue asks persistently. She is stubborn. Just like him. 

“Then you will throw my body into the snowdrift, take the car keys and find a younger lad,” Logan smiles. He doesn't think its funny. He is possibly the least funny mutant in the world.

“Stupid joke,” Rogue says. She gives Logan a hand but she doesn't touch his fingers. Her fingers slide over his hairy phalanges, over his broad palm, over the wrist with the expanded veins and up the dusky arm to the bend of the elbow.

Rogue steps out from the darkness. She comes closer, jostling away the rustling checkered shower curtain, following the hasteless soaring of the hand with gnawed nails with her eyes. Logan sniffs her hair, moving his another hand over it – no touching. He cannot die, but he is not going to be too risky.

Rogue looks Logan into the eyes and asks for thousand, million,endless time: “Do you love me?” “Yes,” Logan answers. “But not when you asks me about it every half a minute.” 

Rogue snorts. She snorts Logan into the face, her warm breath on the way to his skin gets stuck somewhere in his bristle. Logan breaths in her smell and Rogue gets down on her knees with Logan dick on one level with her face. “You love me and I'm going to show you, how much,” Rogue says. She looks single-minded. Logan should pray, but he doesn't believe in God: and if Devil exists. Logan would sell his soul for this to never end.

Logan starts, pulling his toes, and put his hand on Rogue's nape. Death enters him with the warmness of her mouth. Logan has never thought of how wrenching his pleasure can be at death's door.


End file.
